To Be Heard
by Mage Myrddin
Summary: Harry defeated Voldemort and moved on with his life. Then he was sentenced to Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit and three years later, his soul was sucked out. Well, the Valar weren't going to let that stand. Good thing they knew a place were Harry might learn to be happy. Brief mentions of Azkaban betrayal and an elfling!harry story.
1. Chapter 1 - Soulless

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 1 - Soulless**

The only emotion Hadrian Charlus Evans of the House of Potter felt when the Dementor sealed its mouth over his in a soul-sucking kiss was relief. Even if this was a fate worse than death, he couldn't help but feel that it would be better than the past few years - or, more accurately, it couldn't be worse. He no longer had it in him to hope for better.

He had defeated Voldemort at the age of seventeen. Remus and Tonks were dead, as was Fred Weasley, Colin Creevey, Severus Snape and so many others who fought against Voldemort. Not long after the Final battle, he'd had to go and make reparations to the goblins, where he was informed of his inheritance as the Lord of an old pureblood House, though thankfully not an Ancient and Noble House - the Ministry had stripped the Black line of that title after three Black family members committed 'acts worthy of Azkaban' within a ten-year period. Even after he was hailed as Britain's Saviour, he hadn't been able to prove Sirius's innocence. He also saw his birth certificate for the first time and learned that his name was not, in fact, Harry Potter, but Hadrian Charlus Evans of the House of Potter.

He had, however, succeeded in proving the innocence of Severus Snape, who was posthumously awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class for 'braving torture and acts of evil for the good of the Wizarding World'. Harry couldn't help thinking that the man's reaction to the award if he'd lived would have been beyond amusing. His snarling and constant insults to the Minister would be quite the sight to see.

About a month after the Final Battle, the Sword of Gryffindor appeared in a sheath on his desk, and no matter what he did, kept reappearing there. Eventually he gave up, and decided that since he had the sword and it wasn't going to leave him alone, he might as well learn to use it.

The new Minister was a short, plump man with a pin-striped suit and a sickening blue bowler hat called Tobias Fudge, a cousin of Cornelius Fudge and a distant relative of the Snapes'. Harry disliked him on sight, but hid it behind a polite smile and a quick handshake. He'd had enough of the press turning on him in the past, and wasn't willing to invite them to slander him again.

After discovering a whole world of politics and power after receiving his inheritance, Harry also started discretely putting out enquires as to how he managed to go so long without knowing anything about his heritage - it wasn't exactly restricted knowledge. Muggleborns received a pamphlet outlining the government system, yet Harry had been shown round Diagon Alley by Hagrid. Not that he had anything against the half-giant, but Hagrid did have a rather simplistic view of the world, and it probably wouldn't even occur to him that Harry would need to know about his status as the heir apparent of House Potter.

As far as he could tell, Dumbledore was the one behind his ignorance of Wizarding customs, (and didn't that put Sirius's lack of a trial in new light?) but he couldn't have done it all on his own, he simply didn't have enough interaction with Harry on a personal level to ensure that no-one mentioned the importance of Harry's position to him.

Ginny had approached Harry not long before September asking if they could be together now Voldemort was gone, but he turned her down. After everything that had happened, he just didn't want to have a commitment to someone else. He wanted to be able to do what he wanted to for a change.

He went back to Hogwarts to retake his seventh year and pass his NEWTS. Without Voldemort hanging around and no good chances to have death-defying adventures, everything went much more smoothly and he was able to spent a good amount of time reading. Hermione was there as well, but Ron had, unsurprisingly, opted to help George run Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Ginny was also there for her seventh year, and was so persistent in her belief that she and Harry should be dating that he took to avoiding her completely, and after gentle but firm refusals throughout the year, was finally forced to tell her in no uncertain terms that he was never going to be in a serious relationship with her during graduation.

He spent the next four years catching up on things he should have had all along. He went back to Muggle school and passed GCSE's in Maths, English, Science, IT and French in the first year, and then went travelling. Tourist spots in London, most countries in Europe, and America, both Muggle and Magical. Over the course of that time he learned Occlumency (determined that a repeat of the Department of Mysteries fiasco would not happen, even if Voldemort was dead), improved his handwriting to the point that most people would call his letters elegant rather than an almost-intelligible scrawl (he made a point of learning that in part because it was expected of the Lord of House Potter, and in part because Snape used to write paragraph-long scathing insults about the readability of the essays he turned in), and mastered the Animagus transformation (he didn't register. Sirius would be more than proud).

His mastery of the Animagus transformation required a certain degree of proficiency in wandless magic, and although it was hard at first, he found he enjoyed the challenge now that he was free from yearly attempts on his life. He continued to practice long after he had done what he needed for the transformation, finding solace in the knowledge that he stood a chance at protecting himself without his wand, should the need arise.

All the while Ginny kept sending letters to him, approximately one a month. He never replied, but once or twice he sent a polite letter to Mrs Weasley asking if she could convince Ginny to move on without him.

He came back to England not long after turning twenty one, and was back for no more than a month when something utterly unexpected happened.

Ron and Hermione, who had been married approximately a year after Hermione's graduation on one of the few short days Harry spent in England before leaving again, were found dead in their home. The initial Auror report said that it looked like they had been arguing, Ron's temper got the better of him and he killed Hermione by accident, then killed himself in remorse, but closer inspection revealed that it had been staged to look that way and the murders had actually been committed by a third party.

That was when a tearful Ginny had faked a letter from Harry stating his desire to rekindle a relationship with her and to meet him at Ron and Hermione's house and gone to the Ministry saying that Harry had killed Ron and Hermione in front of her because they had blackmailed him into not going out with her.

Harry's trial had been little more than a sham, and Harry knew without doubt that if he had not been so public a figure he probably wouldn't have received a trial at all. His defence attorney had argued every point in Harry's favour, but the evidence against the Saviour had been overwhelming. His last effort had been to appeal for Veritaserum, but the plea had been overturned by the Minister because 'when the evidence was damning, it was because the accused was guilty. Using Veritaserum on a trial as clear-cut as this would be little more than a waste of public resources that could be put to a far better use'.

Harry had wanted to punch him, but all throughout his trial he had remained stony-faced and silent, knowing that nothing he said would change anything and determined not to provide any of the idiots here amusement by losing his composure.

Harry's only supporters amongst the jeering public was Mr and Mrs Weasley, who knew he would never do anything of the sort, along with Bill, Charlie, George, Neville and his wife Hannah and Luna and her husband Blaise. Percy wasn't taking a side, Fred and Ron were dead, and Ginny was testifying against Harry.

The outcome of the trial was easily predicted. As the last of the House of Potter they had to keep him in custody (read:Azkaban) for three years to allow any new evidence to surface, after which they were legally allowed to administer the Kiss.

As he was dragged away by the Dementors to suffer his sentence, he saw Ginny Weasley blowing him a mocking kiss from the stands. He silently cursed the fact that while his animagus form would be perfect for ripping her throat out (the intimidation factor also didn't hurt) there was no way he'd be slipping through any bars in it, malnourished or not.

Now, here he was. Twenty four years old, half-starved, half-dead, and having his soul sucked out. Having his life taken away only a few brief years after he thought he was free to live as he wished.

His life had never been a happy one. After so long being royally screwed over by just about everyone, Harry was just glad that it was over.

* * *

As it turned out, having your soul sucked out was worse than death. Worse than the Kings Cross Station he'd seen, anyway.

If being in the presence of a Dementor caused you to remember all the worst things that happened to you, then having your soul somewhere inside the Dementor was a thousand times worse. It was like marinating in despair so much deeper than your own, drowning in it till everything you were was crying out for an end, any end. Even not existing at all would be better than this.

Instead of feeling like you'd never be happy again, you forgot what happiness was.

Harry despaired. He didn't know how long it had been; it could have been seconds, or it could have been years. Even knowing he was innocent did nothing to give him peace from the torment. How could it, when he had forgotten what peace was? When he was no longer aware that this torture was not the only thing left?

* * *

Somewhere ... else, Lily Potter was oscillating between absolute rage and tearful despair as she, James, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Severus and Regulus watched Hadrian Charlus Evans of the House of Potter crumple to the floor, soulless and completely unaware of the world that continued to turn around him. Being dead, they understood the torments that a soulless person would suffer with far more clarity than the idiots in the Ministry, and were appropriately horrified, not just because they loved him but because he was innocent.

James looked like he wanted to punch something, badly, but underneath that there was a sense of despair. Severus's eyes glittered with some unknown emotion, gears in his head turning as he sought to think of something they could do to help the brat. Regulus looked on with sorrow, but not knowing Harry himself and only being there for Severus meant that he was mostly concerned for his brother. Sirius looked like he wanted to kill the Minister (Even death didn't heal all wounds, and Azkaban still left its mark) and he didn't have the same edge of despair as James. Remus was actually growling, low in his throat, and Tonks had her hands wrapped in his, her hair cycling through a series of colours as her mood fluctuated.

Severus, who spent a great deal of time soaking up as much knowledge of his surroundings as possible so he could be prepared for any eventuality (one did not spy on two major powers without being cautious) narrowed his eyes a little as a possible course of action which could help Harry occurred to him.

"I wonder," he mused. "The realm of the dead is ruled by the Lord of the Dead. He goes by many names, but I believe the most commonly used one is Mandos. He is also renowned for being fair. There is a chance, however small, that he may be able to help Harry in some way."

The attention of everyone there was riveted on him. James stepped forward. "Well, where is he?"

"Gryffindors." Severus muttered, before speaking as normal. "It isn't as simple as walking up to someone and asking for directions, Potter..."

* * *

After an indeterminable amount of time, Harry became aware that things were changing. The despair no longer pressed on him so heavily, and he began to remember the parts of his life that had been forgotten, the times where he was happy.

He still despaired, but it no longer consumed him.

Eventually he realised that he wasn't still a scrap of thought but lying on the ground. He could feel a couple of rocks digging into his back, could feel a breath of wind on his skin, could hear birdsong and, for the first time in forever, he was aware of his own breathing.

He didn't move. He had no desire to.

The land around him seemed peaceful, or so he thought; he hadn't bothered to open his eyes to check. After a while the peace of it seemed to seep into him. He began to relax, and started to wonder where his was, since he was sure that he'd been worse than dead. Still, he could not muster up the will to care enough to get up and look around.

The despair still held him in it's grip sometimes, till it was all he could think about. However as time seemed to pass, those episodes happened less and less often, and with less intensity.

Finally, his desire to know where he was outweighed the idea of simply continuing to lie there, soaking up the fact that _nothing was happening._

He opened his eyes and stood smoothly, not wobbling at all despite the length of time he had to have lain there, not doing anything. He was in a garden of some kind, with a little stream trickling a few feet away and flowers dotting the ground. Harry didn't have time to take in more that that because even as he watched, the land disappeared into a kind of white blankness. Then there was a sense of someone watching him, and before Harry could become suspicious of the feeling, soft voices greeted him.

 _"Hello, little one."_ They greeted him in English.

Harry stared at the four vaguely people-shaped lights in bewilderment. His emotions - fear, uncertainty, confusion - seemed far away, muted. Like he'd felt only despair and hopelessness for so long, he couldn't feel other emotions with as much intensity.

 _"You do not have to speak."_ The voices soothed. _"Just to listen. You were sentenced by the court of the magical world on your Earth, but you are innocent. Your family, your parents and their friends appealed to the Lord of the Dead, Mandos, to aid you, for your suffering was unfair."_

One of the beings of light rippled slightly, and Harry got the feeling that he was Mandos.

 _"Mandos gathered us and asked us to help him aid you. We brought you here, gave you a place of peace to recover from some of the pain that was inflicted on you. However, your physical body on your earth still lives, and you cannot pass into the Halls of Mandos until you are truly dead."_

Harry curled in on himself slightly as he realised that he wouldn't be able to see his family yet after all.

 _"It was at this time we decided that if you need to be truly dead to pass into the Halls, you should first live. There are many worlds, with many forms of life. There is one in particular that we feel would suit you. Middle-Earth. They have a race of elves there who are protective beyond belief of children from any race, and they are skilled at healing, in both body and heart. They would help you."_

Harry was sure he looked as confused as he felt. He wasn't a child. He didn't think he'd ever been a child.

 _"Oh, little one."_ They sighed. _"We would turn you into a elf to ensure that you would be protected. Elves age approximately one year to every three they live until they reach the age of thirty and look about ten. After that they age one year to every five until they reach the age of eighty, looking about twenty. After that, they barely age at all. When we turn you into an elf, you will appear to be around eight."_

Harry thought about that for a minute, before shrugging. It didn't much matter to him. What was the worst that could happen, he could die? So long as they didn't have Dementors in that world, he was happy. There was one thing he was a little curious about, however. He held up his hand, palm up, and focused, hoping that he could still use wandless magic after going so long without practice. After a few seconds, a dim, shivering light appeared there, although it went out again almost immediately.

 _"Yes child, you will keep your magic, although it is not the norm for your race. The Wizards on Middle Earth are few, and more powerful than those of your world. You will not have a wand - yours was destroyed by the Ministry ... we are sorry."_ They added, as Harry flinched remembering the fate of his wand. _"You will still have all of the wounds and scars of your old body - we cannot help it. This does mean that you'll still have the runes the Ministry carved into your palms and arms to spite you, though; they will help you cast without a wand. We will also send with you things which you value most; the Sword of Gryffindor, the Potter signet ring, things like that."_

Harry felt the light wrap him up, felt it seep into his mind and show him letters and words he'd never seen before, felt the new knowledge fill him up.

 _"English is not spoken on that world, so we are giving you knowledge of Sindarin, the primary language of the elves. We cannot decide exactly where you will arrive, only the area, but we will always watch out for you. You will not come to harm."_ The light pulsed around him again, and Harry left his world for another.

* * *

 **Just to clarify a few things, italics is English and normal writing will be Sindarin, because most of the story will be in Sindarin and I don't want to have to keep pressing the italics button.**

 **No, I haven't told you everything about what Harry went through because of the Ministry, like the runes carved into his hands and arms. We'll get to that.**

 **Yes, I'm starting another story. My ninth. I mean, really. But who can resist writing a story where Harry is a child and gets treated like one, but has suffered as more than most adults and has had to end a war? Not to mention the whole Azkaban/betrayal thing.**

 **Please, please review. I have a lot of unfinished stories and I pick which one to write another chapter for by the amount of reviews on the latest chapter barring writers block, so any and all comments is appreciated.**

 **Enjoy, Shib. :)**


	2. Chapter 2 - Estel and Mithrandir

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

 **Chapter 2 - Estel and Mithrandir**

Hadrian woke slowly, the sounds of water nearby pulling him from sleep. He sat up, blinking blearily in the light as the sight of a forest greeted him.

The world-weary wizard stood, holding the too-big clothes tight to prevent them from falling off of his small frame. The events of the past - well, however long it had been - were clear in his mind. Unless he had been driven insane by the Dementors and had invented a fantasy world to give him some relief, he was in another world with a race of elves inhabiting it, who would apparently look after him because he was a child, having been sent there by seemingly god-like beings who decided that his life had been massively unfair and that he deserved better.

He hadn't ruled out insanity.

Imagination or not though, it certainly felt real which meant that not only could he feel comfortable if he found somewhere soft to lay down, he could also feel pain. He looked at the ground and quickly found a small sharp stick. He pressed the point to the tip of his left index finger and pressed until it bled. Yep. He could feel pain here.

He dropped the stick to the ground again and absently licked his bleeding finger clean as he thought. Real or imaginary, sanity or insanity, he could feel pain. Best try not to do things that will get himself hurt.

Then again, the strange figures of light had said that they would always watch over him and they supposedly sent him somewhere to be safe. If they were telling the truth, there might not be anything to worry about.

Hadrian thought of Dumbledore's claims of being safe and decided to be careful just in case.

The beings of light also said they would be turning him into an elfish child too. He looked himself up and down, and felt for the tips of his ears. Short and childlike, check. Pointed ears, check. Definitely a child and probably an elf. Hadrian didn't know enough about the race of elves who lived here to be certain, but the pointed ears were probably an elfish trait.

He sat down heavily on the nearest rock and rested his chin on his hand. He was so tired still, despite his period of rest in that peaceful not-quite-place before he had been sent here. Not physically tired, but mentally. He didn't want to have to go off on some adventure in a new land, with the inevitable emotional roller-coaster that would follow. He felt empty, hollow of emotion beyond the ever-present fatigue and the echoes of despair and hopelessness that he knew would take much time to fade.

Hadrian hadn't moved past the troubles in his life by giving in to whatever desire for rest he had, however, so he mentally steeled himself and thought about what to do next.

There was a river gurgling happily a couple meters away, and everything else as far as he could see was forest. He had four options, from what he could tell. Option one: He could stay where he was. If the shiny people meant for him to be safe - and everything else they'd said so far seemed to be true, so for now Hadrian would take it at face value - then here was probably pretty safe, and someone would probably find him eventually. On the other hand, this place didn't look very well-travelled, and Hadrian had only the vaguest of notions about living safely in the wild for extended periods of time. Food could become a problem very quickly.

Option two: He could strike out into the forest and hope to stumble across someone that way. Of course, that took him away from his only source of water, without which he would die very quickly, and there was no guarantee that he wouldn't end up walking in circles. So that was out.

Option three and four: He could follow the river. The only question would be if he should go upstream or downstream. Not leaving the river meant he wouldn't walk in circles and he wouldn't be separated from his source of clean water. Also, walking along the riverbank meant he wouldn't be just sitting here staring at nothing all day.

So. Upstream or down?

Hadrian walked to the waters edge and knelt down, carefully scooping up some of the clear liquid in his scarred hands and slurping it down before sitting back comfortably. He didn't have to decide which way to go now - he had to fix his clothes first. Adult clothes do not fit well on a child.

Quickly and efficiently, and silently thanking the people who'd taught him to survive with anything while he was rounding out his education after Voldemort's defeat, (even if at the time he'd been half-tempted to commit murder after they slipped a sleeping potion in his drink and then dumped him butt-naked in a forest with a compass and a map with directions to items of clothing in different places marked out in red ink.) he ripped off the sleeves halfway down so that instead of hanging down over his hands, the sleeves ended at his wrists. He ripped up the spare material into strips and wrapped it around his wrists so that the sleeves were no longer flapping about. He repeated the process with the trouser legs as well, although this time there was a few strips of cloth left. After a moment of thought, he tied half of the strips together and bound them round his chest to keep his shirt from slipping down too far as well. He also used some as a belt. After a moments hesitation, he tied the final piece around his head so the tips of his ears were covered. The light people had said that elves lived in this world; they hadn't said that _only_ elves lived here. Until he knew for certain, it might be prudent to hide the obvious mark of his new species (assuming he was an elf and they weren't lying; but he couldn't see what they would gain from that) in case there were people out there who were ... less than friendly.

With that done, he frowned. Hadn't the glowing people said something about his sword and the Potter signet ring coming with him?

As soon as he thought that, a gleam in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turn to look, finding himself wryly amused to see the Sword of Gryffindor lying on the mossy rocks, looking for all the world like it had been there all along. Next to the goblin-wrought sword lay the signet ring that Harry had become so fond of; it was the symbol of the inheritance that had been kept from him until the absolute last moment, and later, a symbol of just how much his life had changed.

Well. Not changed that much, as it turned out. But those few years when he'd thought himself free had been the best of his life.

Hadrian carefully walked over to his possessions, mindful of his bare feet on the sharp rocks. His fingers traced over the designs on the pommel for a moment, before Harry pulled them back in shock as the sword became thinner and a little shorter, presumably knowing somehow that he was smaller now and changing itself to match. In one fluid movement Hadrian lifted and unsheathed the sword, sunlight shining on the exquisitely crafted metal. The corner of Hadrian's lips twitched in a tiny, tiny smile; it was good to have it back.

Sheathing his sword, Hadrian tied the sheath tightly to his belt and adjusted his clothes so that the weapon would not be evident at first glance. Bending down, he scooped up the Potter signet ring. It was too big to fit on his finger now, and it might not be wise to do that anyway - he had no idea what the customs regarding Houses were for elves, (if they even had Houses) but if it was anything like back in the Wizarding World, it would raise eyebrows if a child as young as eight was seen wearing a signet ring. All that besides, he still didn't know for certain what the elves would think of him. Best not to give them any more information about him than he had to; after all, he only had the people made of light's word that the elves would be good for him. He would avoid elves completely - avoid everyone completely - if he thought for one second that they'd allow it. Besides which, if there was worse things than elves in this world, he'd rather be with people who were at least supposed to look after him.

Decision made, Hadrian slipped the signet ring carefully into an inside pocket, where he had virtually no chance of losing it. He stood up and looked around to make sure he hadn't missed anything, (he hadn't) and then looked up and down the river.

Upstream or downstream?

Hadrian looked down at himself again - more specifically, at his short, easily tired out legs - and nodded to himself. Water flows downhill. As a child, downhill would be easier for him to handle.

With one last look around the place where he had arrived in this world, Hadrian marched off.

He still had no food.

He had no idea where he was, or where he was going.

He had no idea if there were peoples other than elves in this world.

He had no idea how to find elves.

He had no idea if elves would truly look after him.

Maybe he could find out.

* * *

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, sighed as he followed Gandalf as he made his way to Standelf, in Buckland.

"Why did you say we were making our way to the Old Forest again, Gandalf?" Aragorn called ahead to the somewhat irritated wizard.

"I didn't!" Came the short reply. "Because I don't know. Now stop pestering me with questions, Arathorn son of Arathorn, and let me try to find what we're looking for!"

Aragorn sighed again as he sped up a little to match the wizard's pace.

"Why is it so important that we find whatever it is if you don't even know what you're looking for?" The question came out far more like a complaint than an honest question, to Aragorn's embarrassment.

"The things I don't know, Aragorn, are oft more important than those that I do. There is something in the Old Forest that we have to find, and we have to find it for a reason." Gandalf replied in his usual roundabout, makes-no-sense way.

Aragorn sighed. He had been finally made it back home to Rivendell but hadn't been there for more than a single night before Gandalf had dragged him off towards the Shire with barely a by-your-leave to Elrond, Aragorn's adoptive Ada, not even giving a proper reason for his insistence that Aragorn be present. Now Aragorn was back in the wild when he could be resting with his family for the first time in a few years. His time at home had significantly decreased since he took up his duties as a Ranger and the Chief of the Dunedain.

Not that he didn't think that defending the West against the East was worth it, he thought guiltily. But he missed his childhood home and the people in it. He wished his duty was not always so pressing.

* * *

Hadrian walked for hours, and was pleased and somewhat puzzled to note that he didn't tire as quickly as he thought a child should. Yes, his legs were trembling with effort and he was more than a little sweaty, but he hadn't had to stop for a break at all, when he was fairly sure that an ordinary child would have. He eventually put it down to being an elf here and left it at that - he wouldn't be able to draw more solid conclusions about his strength here and the reason behind it until he had more information on what was normal for elves.

He made sure that he drank a lot of water, knowing from his time with the Dursleys that filling himself up with water would take the edge off of his hunger when he went without food. Not to mention that he wasn't sure if this body would suffer from the malnourishment and dehydration he had suffered intermittently all throughout his life. He couldn't do anything about food right now, but he could certainly make sure that he didn't go thirsty here, especially with all the sweating he was doing, which would increase the amount of water he needed.

When night came, he hunkered down next to the river, pulling the hood of his black shirt up and hiding any skin when he curled up so that he blended in. Because he was lying with his knees to his chest he also managed to preserve body heat. Thankfully, it seemed to be sometime in the warmer months - either late spring (there was no frost, so early spring was out) or summer. Despite the fact that it wasn't very cold, however, it also wasn't hot. It was probably early summer or late summer, since Harry reckoned that the middle of the summer would have warmer nights.

Of course, that relied on the seasons here having some resemblance to the seasons in the world where he was born.

When morning came again he pulled himself up and jumped around a bit to get rid of the stiffness in his limbs. He might have spent a lot of time sleeping on a hard floor, but that didn't make him like it any better. He winced as he stuck his hands in the freezing river, splashing the cold water on his face to make him wake up and drinking several mouthfuls once he'd scrubbed dirt off hands that had collected over the night. He then stood and carefully continued picking his way around the rocks that littered the river's edge, ignoring the pain in his feet when he slipped and a rock cut into the soles of his feet. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to arrive with any shoes.

Later that afternoon, around three if Hadrian had to guess the time from the sun, Hadrian's world had narrowed down to the ground in front of him and the river to his left as he stumbled along, bolts of pain shooting up his legs with every step he took thanks to the cuts that left bloody footprints behind. Hadrian really hoped there wasn't anything bad in the forest; if they caught his scent he'd have a hell of a time shaking them off.

Despite his increased strength here, Hadrian was still a child, and it was showing on the second day of his trek. With no food to give him energy, poor sleep which gave him little rest, and the body of a child, exhaustion was dragging him down.

He blamed that for his carelessness and lack of attention to his surroundings.

It took him a moment for the quiet sounds to register as voices, but once it did his head snapped up. Directly in front of him, at least two people were approaching through the trees. The river curved away to his left at that point, so the water wouldn't be inbetween them. Worse, because he hadn't been paying attention, he hadn't realised that the tree line was getting further away from the river which he was right next to, meaning he had no immediate thick cover. He froze for a second as his eyes darted around, looking for anything that could hide him; he couldn't make it to the trees fast enough to not be seen without making a sound that would alert whoever was coming to his presence. He couldn't cross the river without making splashing noises.

Hearing their voices become clearer, Hadrian violently swore inside his head and curled up behind one of the larger rocks, which still only came up to just above Hadrian's knees and barely hid all of him. He knew that the chances of whoever was coming not noticing his presence was beyond slim, unless they were blind, deaf and dumb, but experience had taught him that most people weren't like the Dursleys and if they saw a child hiding, wouldn't do anything to scare the child. At the very least, the rock would be a decent shield if they tried to attack him, and his sword presumably still had basilisk poison on it so he wouldn't need to get in a killing blow, just a scratch and then wait.

Looking over the rock towards the newcomers, Hadrian allowed himself to be a little visible; there was practically no chance they wouldn't see him anyway, and he would still appear to be hiding, so the scared-child act would still have an effect on them if they weren't like the Dursleys.

* * *

Gandalf paused for a moment in the trees; he knew that whatever - or, as he was beginning to suspect, whoever - he was looking for was close. The urge to rush in and find it - or them - was increasing, but at the same time he knew that they had to approach with care, or risk scaring whoever it was off. Turning to face Aragorn, he beckoned the Ranger closer, speaking in common quietly.

*Aragorn, we are near, and I suspect that what we are looking for is a person. We must approach carefully.*

*Are they a threat?* Aragorn asked quietly.

Gandalf shook his head. *Not unless in fear of his life, I suspect, but I think he might feel the need to run from us. We should not let that happen, I think; I get the impression things aren't safe for him.*

*Up ahead is the River Withywindle. I believe it turns away to our right. Do you know exactly where this mystery person is?* Aragorn asked in a whisper.

Gandalf's eyes focussed in the distance as a brief picture filled his vision. *Right next to the bank of the river, I believe. The tree line is a small distance away; he will not have an easy time hiding if we catch him unawares.*

*Yet he could still run away, and we could not give chase without unsettling him further.* Aragorn pointed out. *We could sneak up close and then start talking at normal volume; he would be aware of our presence but with not enough time to hide adequately. Also, if we do not scare him by appearing suddenly he may not run away.*

Gandalf nodded reluctantly. It was not a fool proof plan by any means, but it would have to do until they knew more about how to convince the mysterious stranger to trust them.

Not much later, they were in place and began talking about the fall of Erebor to Smaug and the effect that had on trade in some areas as they strode towards the river and the place where the person they sought was located.

They didn't break the conversation as they emerged from the trees, but Aragorn was on high alert, scanning the area with his peripheral vision as he tried to spot who they were looking for. To both his and Gandalf's panic, (not that they showed it - the whole point of this was to _not_ let whoever they were looking for know that they did anything but stumble upon him by accident) no-one was immediately apparent. Did they miscalculate? Had he made it to the trees before they arrived?

Aragorn was the first to spot the small head poking out from behind a rock, green eyes regarding them distrustfully. Gandalf saw the child when he followed Aragorn's gaze after the man had stuttered to a stop in the middle of a sentence.

*Hello, are you alright? Why are you here, where are your parents?* Aragorn asked the child, several questions spilling out in a rush as his shock caused him to blurt out the biggest things on his mind.

Gandalf stood back, content to let Aragorn hold the child's focus as he watched the child to see what he could learn.

The child did not reply, staying stock-still and staring at them distrustfully.

* * *

 **I'm sorry for ending it there, but I haven't updated in a while trying to think of a way of doing this scene without it being hopelessly cliché. Not that that is necessarily bad, but one would hope there would be a few differences every once in a while.**

*Common looks like this, if you hadn't noticed, because the Italics button pisses me off and Common won't be used much.*

 _"English will be like this because instead of going the 'Sindarin is like Parseltounge' route I made Mandos and the others actually stuff knowledge of the language of the elves in his head separately. He can still use English as a form of communication the elves won't understand because everyone knows elves can't help overhearing conversations. Spells will also be like this should I chose to use them even though they are technically some form of Latin."_

 **"Dwarfish, if I ever get round to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield meeting Hadrian, will be like this."**

 **You might have noticed I didn't give an exact date. Let me say this now: I DON'T INTEND TO. I have read the books including the Hobbit, (When I was ten) and watched the movies, (repeatedly to the point of obsession) but my knowledge of events before the films are sketchy at best. This takes place before the quest to Erebor and after Aragorn begins working as a Ranger. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YEAR THAT IS, SO I'M LEAVNG IT UP IN THE AIR. Sorry.**

 **Enjoy the chapter and sorry for the somewhat longer-than-usual author's note, Shib. :)**


	3. Chapter 3 - Lines of Communication

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

 **I realise that I don't usually put an author's note at the top, but I forgot to reply to a comment about a review for Chapter 1. This comment basically said;**

 **\- Why does everyone feel the need to turn the Elves into prancing, feel-good ninnies?**

 **\- Harry hasn't suffered nearly as much as the Eldar, from Morgoth to Sauron.**

 **\- It took Luthien dying and then lamenting to move Mandos, and that was Luthien whose song charmed even the Black Foe of the World.**

 **\- Why bring Harry to Middle-Earth? The Elves have bigger things to worry about.**

 **My answers are below, in order;**

 **\- They won't be like that. Yes, they're going to care massively about Hadrian because he's an elfling and it's a part of their culture, but I am also aware that elves are "fucking badass", to quote. Hello, Galadriel in the third Hobbit movie, anyone? I have a couple ideas about orc-killing, and elf-dwarf tension will be pretty obvious when I get round to the Company being in Rivendell.**

 **\- No, but he's suffered a lot compared to the people in his world, and words don't really do justice to the 'having your soul sucked out' bit.**

 **\- This is the point I'm actually most irritated about; you don't actually know what Severus, Regulus, Lily and the loyal Marauders did to convince Mandos to help Hadrian. Hell, you don't even know how long it took them - Hadrian had no perception of time when he was soulless and the only clue you have to his age is that his body is still alive at the time of him becoming an elfling. Since I don't think canon ever stated how long a body would live without a soul, for all you are aware he could be a hundred. Not to mention that even if canon did put a time limit on body-life after the soul is removed, you don't know for certain that time doesn't move faster in the halls of Mandos.**

 **\- Ever thought that once Hadrian grows up by about a hundred years, he'll be able to help them? He will still have his magic, and although he won't be as powerful as an Istari, his spells have more variety from what I have seen. For all you know, Mandos agreed to send Hadrian there knowing that his hero-complex would get him to do something stupid like taking on the Balrog so Gandalf wouldn't die, thus benefitting the Fellowship.**

 **So, now that that is over with, on with the story.**

* * *

 **Chapter 3 - Lines Of Communication**

Hadrian watched as the two people he'd heard talking emerged from the trees. The first was an old man wearing grey robes and a staff, with a pointy hat. At first glance he looked like Dumbledore, but when he looked closer, the differences were obvious; Dumbledore's grandfather persona was well-cultivated, the image of a wise but dotty old man. This wizard - and Hadrian had no doubt he was a wizard, because the taste of his power seemed to blend into the rocks and grass and air like it was a living thing itself (not to mention the staff) - did look old and wise, but his robes were ragged and had seen better days, his hat was drooping and his beard tangled. He did not try to give off a certain impression, he simply was. He clearly could care less about appearances.

The other thing that caught Hadrian's attention about the wizard was how real he seemed; Dumbledore had always appeared untouchable, powerful, like he was something more than an ordinary person. Dumbledore would not lower himself to fight Death Eaters, no, he would only get involved if Voldemort himself fought. This man, however, had a sharpness, a seriousness about him that told Hadrian that the wizard here was far more involved in the realities of life than Dumbledore had ever been.

The other man had brown, messy hair hanging down to his chin, and a noble sort of face, if covered in stubble. He too, seemed serious as though he had seen many hardships, and looking at the sheathed sword on the man's belt and the knives strapped to his forearms, Hadrian didn't doubt that he had. He had a tiredness about him that the wizard did not, for all his greater years; the younger man's clothes were stained more heavily with mud and grime and - Hadrian squinted - some kind of black substance that appeared to have dried on the man in splatters. Perhaps the man had been travelling for longer?

The other thing that Hadrian noticed was that the younger man did not have pointy ears, and he didn't think that the old man did either, although it was hard to tell through the thick grey hair. He was suddenly inordinately glad that he'd hidden his ears beneath a strip of cloth. The Dursleys had showed him exactly what people who were afraid of differences could do, and he had no way of measuring the intentions of these people, since he no longer had a wand.

He glanced down at the thin white scars in the shapes of runes that were carved into his hands and arms; they would help with his casting, but they were not meant to channel magic. He would have to channel a little bit of magic through them gradually so they would adjust to the change; if he tried to channel too much magic too soon, the runes would not be able to contain the power properly and would therefore begin releasing energy in the form of light and heat in a effort to prevent being overloaded and thus exploding. Long term effects would be the damage the heat would do to his arms and hands. He would not be permanently injured, but he wouldn't be able to cast while he was healing.

Hadrian sighed silently; if his emotions hadn't seemingly been dampened by his stint as a soulless person, Hadrian would be so bloody angry about the destruction of his wand and the spite that went into the carving of these runes into his skin it wouldn't even be funny.

Hadrian wondered if it weren't for the better that he couldn't feel anything intensely; if he could and was still in his world, he might have killed someone. Probably Ginny. Followed by the judge who sentenced him, then Rita Skeeter and all the reporters who slandered him, then ... well, pretty much everyone else.

Probably a good thing he was no longer on earth, then, Hadrian concluded. He couldn't say he was going to miss it very much, not now Ron and Hermione were dead.

Looking up, he refocused on the situation at hand. Namely, two unknowns approaching with unclear intentions.

Hadrian's left hand crept down and gripped the hilt of his sword. Just in case. He held absolutely still as the younger man finally noticed him, some small, almost-forgotten part of his brain that was very aware of his new weaknesses insisting loudly that if he moved, it would attack.

The younger man spoke, obviously asking questions from the tone of his voice, but the language was nothing Hadrian understood, although it seemed somewhat like German to Hadrian's inexperienced ear, because several of the sounds were harsh, bordering on guttural. Harry simply stared at him blankly, wishing fiercely that he could remember how to move his face to display emotion. Confusion would do, but fear would be better; it seemed to pull on the heartstrings, the sight of a child afraid, and if they were undecided about what to do with him then looking afraid might have convinced them to help him rather that hurt him.

Still, he couldn't remember how to do that, so he didn't bother thinking about it much; it would not help him now.

The younger man started to walk towards him slowly, deliberately making no sudden moves in his approach; the old man seemed content to let the other take the lead for now and followed a few steps behind, but Hadrian was not fooled by his more peripheral role. The old man's magic was alert, watchful - not maliciously so, but unnerving all the same - and his eyes were sharp, scrutinising Hadrian and cataloguing his actions.

When the duo got about three meters away from him, Harry stood to his full height (which was, regrettably, not what it used to be) a took a single step back, stating clearly that he didn't want them to come any closer. The younger man heeded his unspoken warning and stopped approaching, instead kneeling down to Hadrian's level and asking another question, concern evident even to Hadrian who didn't understand the words.

Hadrian simply tilted his head to the side in a silent question. He could of course talk to them in the language he did know, but there was no guarantee that either of them knew Sindarin and anyway, speaking the language would give away his new race. Besides which ... he really didn't want to talk. He'd been completely silent in Azkaban, even during nightmares (which really freaked the guards out, because everyone screamed or cried or did _something_... it had been one of the few bright points in Hadrian's day) and now he hadn't talked for so long, he didn't particularly want to ... it was spite in a way, Hadrian could admit that much; the Wizarding World as a whole hadn't given Hadrian a chance to talk when he most needed them to listen, so now he wouldn't talk when they were ready to listen.

Of course, he wasn't in the Wizarding World any more, and they had no idea that he was innocent, much less that he wasn't talking. Hadrian suspected that this was the kind of situation the muggle saying, 'cutting off your nose to spite your face' came from. The Wizarding World didn't know or care of his fate or that he was no longer talking because of them; meanwhile not talking to people who had nothing to do with his incarceration and subsequent Kiss could potentially harm him. Therefore, his actions gained him nothing.

Nevertheless, Hadrian no longer felt a need to speak.

The man in front of him asked another gentle question upon Hadrian's continued silence, before reaching behind him slowly, ignoring Hadrian's suddenly tense frame and pulling out something that looked to Hadrian remarkably like a chunk of bread. He held it out in front of him slowly, extending it out as far from his body as possible without overbalancing. Hadrian eyed the food hungrily but made no move to take it.

* * *

Aragorn held out the bread to the still child in front of him. His gaze was shuttered, his face blank of emotion, but Aragorn could tell from the way the child had looked at the bread when the ranger had pulled it out of his pack that the child was hungry, a fact that Aragorn had suspected since noticing the boy's thin frame, emphasised by the bands of fabric the boy had used to keep the obviously much too large clothes from falling down. Despite that however, the boy still refused to come closer.

Aragorn slowly lent forward, placing the bread down on a relatively clean rock before standing up and taking a step back. *We should set up camp here, let him become accustomed to us. We will not be able to travel onwards without him so we will not lose any time by waiting.*

Gandalf nodded. *Very well.* They moved a little way away, Aragorn moving off into the trees to collect firewood as Gandalf set down their packs and pulled out the bedrolls for them to sit on. Before long Aragorn had returned with the firewood and a couple of rabbits and soon the smell of roasting meat was filling the area.

Aragorn watched discreetly as the child sat on a rock, seeming content to watch them for signs of danger rather than eat the bread they had left for him. The ranger wondered where the child had been, for one so obviously hungry to not immediately seize any food that was offered or found. And yet, the child showed no obvious signs of discomfort or pain that accompanied lack of food. Either the child did not get a lot to eat (hence his thinness) but had eaten a little recently and so was not suffering from hunger pangs, or he was simply used to not showing discomfort or hunger.

Unfortunately, he had no way of knowing which it was until the boy decided to talk to them, if he ever did. Aragorn couldn't help but hope it was the first possibility. Any harm against a child was grievous, but the first option seemed to him to be less grievous. Aragorn moved towards Gandalf to see what he thought of their guest.

Gandalf had come to much the same conclusions as he had, Aragorn concluded, with the added observation that the child seemed remarkably self-contained, showing neither fear nor panic at their approach and ignoring the bread they had offered him despite his probable lack of food.

Once the rabbits had finished roasting Aragorn and Gandalf divided them up into three and put it on plates along with some berries that Aragorn had picked up on the road earlier that day, as well as some bread for himself and Gandalf. Aragorn picked up the third portion and a spare waterskin and walked slowly over to the child, gently setting the items down next to the bread that he had left earlier.

*If you do not eat it soon it will go cold, little one.* Aragorn said gently, before backing away to the fire and giving the child his space. Hopefully, he could come to trust the two of them, at least enough to eat.

* * *

Hadrian watched as the two older men sat by the fire and sat in a comfortable silence, having finished their food. Hadrian himself was uncomfortably aware of his own unhappy stomach. He hadn't eaten in too long, and eaten well for longer. The smell of the meat was practically divine, but he ruthlessly squashed the urge to fidget, let his eyes wander to the food or otherwise give away his longing.

The wizard was puffing slowly on a pipe, clouds of smoke occasionally darting off in the shape of dragons and horses and butterflies before finally dispersing and the younger one had taken off what looked to be protective gear and was treating it with some kind of solution, presumably to make sure it didn't break or become weak. Neither of them seemed to be paying him much attention at all, although Hadrian knew that wasn't true. The younger man seemed to be aware of his surroundings and was keeping Hadrian in his peripheral vision. The wizard wasn't even looking at him, but Hadrian could sense his magic keeping watch on the elfling. The old man's magic seemed to have relaxed from the intense scrutiny of earlier though, thankfully, and now felt far less sharp, dangerous.

Knowing that both of them would notice as soon as he moved regardless of how quick or stealthy he was short of a disillusionment charm or a summoning charm (both of which Hadrian was almost certain Gandalf would sense anyway) he didn't bother trying to be sneaky when he stood and walked to the food. He picked up the bread, rabbit meat, berries and waterskin and returned to 'his' rock, all the while watching the men to see if they were going to move. When they didn't do anything, he slowly broke off a piece of bread and started to eat as slowly as his self-control would allow, not wanting to have to show weakness in front of strangers by throwing up.

When he was very small before he'd started Hogwarts, Vernon and Dudley had sometimes given him food - a chocolate bar, a packet of crisps, whatever - and just when he'd thought they were actually being nice to him, they'd take it away again. That had worked up until he'd told the teacher how he was being treated at home and Vernon and Petunia had lied their way out of it. They punishment for that was one of the worst he'd ever received, and he'd finally gotten the message - they were never, ever going to like him, for any reason.

These people, however did not seem like that in the least. Of course, it didn't mean that they were nice, but it was a point in the duo's favour; they had given him food when they didn't have to, in return for nothing.

* * *

Gandalf let his magic keep watch on the boy sitting meters away from them as he stared into the fire. He had finally picked up the food they had left him; that wasn't what concerned the Istari now. What was concerning him was the reaction his magic was having to the child.

Most of the time, his power was spread out through the world around him; the rocks, the trees, the plants and the air, stretched out like a living thing, but centred on his staff; it was the same with the other Istari. Now, however, some of his magic seemed to be gravitating towards the boy sitting a little way away.

It was not the child's doing, of that Gandalf was certain. He didn't even seem to be aware of it. Nor did it disadvantage him in any way, so it likely wasn't a plot to make him less of a threat by the Enemy (or if it was, it wasn't a good one) not to mention Gandalf had no idea how someone would draw his magic without his permission, which didn't make that scenario likely.

What bothered him most about the situation was that his magic resisted his every effort to draw it back from the child. He'd always privately believed that his magic was alive separately from him in it's own right, but this was ridiculous. He had relied on his magic for years and years; what would happen if he couldn't rely on it for the years to come? He, like the other Istari, had felt a stirring in the deep, even if Saruman did pretend it wasn't happening. Was his magic going to change even more?

Turning his mind away from the unsettling topic, Gandalf thought about the boy they had found. He was a puzzle, that was for sure. How did a child of Man find their way into the Old Forest anyway? Not to mention the sword he carried, which appeared to be sized for the child. The clothes he wore were for adults, although he'd rather cleverly stopped them from falling down with the excess material. He ate his food slowly, which not only showed that he hadn't eaten in long enough that his stomach had shrunk, but that he knew eating too fast no would make him sick and _he had the willpower to eat slowly anyway._ Gandalf could think of a few situations in which a child could learn that kind of restraint, and none of them were good.

The child himself seemed fairly normal as children went, although Gandalf ruefully admitted to himself that he hadn't much opportunity to mix with children of any race, and of all of them, he probably knew Hobbits the best, which this child definitely wasn't. He seemed fine-boned, thin and without an ounce of spare fat on his body. He had a mop of messy black hair that was filthy and completely tangled - the wizard suspected it might be better to chop it off and let it grow back than try to fix it. His eyes were green - very green. Almost luminous, and definitely piercing - Gandalf had felt the boy staring at both Aragorn and himself almost as soon as they had stepped into view, and he hadn't stopped since, even when he finally retrieved the food and began eating. It was just another thing on a list of curiosities about the child; most would have become bored by now, no matter how untrusting they were, and as they became bored their attention would start to wonder. Yet this child showed no signs of that.

Gandalf puffed on his pipe harsher than normal and blew out a thick cloud of smoke in frustration. It had been so long since he found something that he didn't understand at all, he had simply seen too much to be completely taken by surprise by something. It was part of the reason he had a reputation for being relentless when something caught his attention that he did not immediately understand; he enjoyed finding things he had never seen before. And yet, he had obviously forgotten the annoyance of a puzzle he could not solve; the child sitting not far from them was doing an excellent job of tying his mind up in frustrated and annoyed knots.

Aragorn glanced sideways at Gandalf and his eyes crinkled as he noticed the wizard's ire. *How does it feel to be baffled like the rest of us lowly mortals?* Aragorn questioned quietly, understanding what was troubling the Grey wizard.

Gandalf huffed at the Ranger. *You're hardly a lowly mortal, Aragorn son of Arathorn.*

Aragorn grimaced a little but nodded in acceptance. *Are we setting a watch tonight?* He asked.

Gandalf paused thoughtfully but shook his head, being careful to speak low enough that the boy could not hear him. *He may not understand why we would be keeping watch, and these woods are safe enough. Besides, something tells me he won't sleep until we aren't awake - he doesn't trust us at all.*

Aragorn frowned a little. *Might he not wander off in the night? He has no reason to stay.*

*And no reason to go.* Gandalf reminded him. *He seems to have no food of his own, and that is reason enough for him to follow us. Not to mention that if he choses to leave, there is little we can do to stop him. We cannot kidnap him, Aragorn. Better he does not get the impression that he is a prisoner and tries to leave sooner.*

The Ranger remained silent, but nodded in agreement.

*Now, I advise we get some sleep. Night is falling and the sooner we get to sleep the sooner the child might. Not to mention you've had a busy few weeks; you could do with some decent rest yourself.* Gandalf said cheerfully.

Aragorn grumbled as he moved to the packs and pulled out his own blankets as well as a spare set. Of course he needed some decent rest; he'd been heading home to get some when Gandalf dragged him on another journey.

He set the spare blankets down near the child and retreated to the fire, where he stamped on a bit of ground to make it as flat as possible before tossing the blankets down and climbing inside. Not far from him, Gandalf was doing the same, deliberately leaving space for a third person, in case the boy got cold enough to not care about the threat they presented, even if they knew they would never hurt him.

Before long, the two of them were sound asleep. Because of this, they didn't see the Hadrian pick up his own blankets, a conflicted expression on his face. They didn't see him place the blankets down again before going to the river and, after casting a silencing spell and completely ignoring the faint burn in his runes as he did so, preceded to wash himself thoroughly (as much as he could without soap) spending painstaking minutes pulling out the knots in his hair. He then risked dunking his clothes in and sending a scrougify at them. It was with great relief that he pulled his clothes on again, including the band around his head that hid his ears, even if he was sopping wet and freezing cold.

Once he was certain that the duo were asleep he crept up to the fire and waited until he dried off a bit before returning to the blankets that the man had left out for him to use. He glanced longingly at the fire as he set them out, wanting to move closer to them warmth, but definitely not wanting to sleep near two strangers. In the end he settled for a compromise, and dragged the covers halfway to the fire before wriggling inside (it was much too big, presumably meant for an adult) and finally allowing himself to drop off into a peaceful sleep.

Of course, it was mostly peaceful because he had his right hand wrapped around the hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor under the covers, but whatever. It wasn't like he was going to use it unless they startled him awake, anyway...

* * *

 **So this is chapter 3. Someone complained that nothing much actually happened last chapter in the reviews, and I suppose that's technically true, but it's hard to skip over this stuff. I mean, Hadrian has been repeatedly betrayed by basically everybody; he's not just going to go along with Gandalf and Aragorn now because some weird light people things said he would be safe.**

 **If you're waiting for action, though, you won't have to wait for long. The elves are going to do their best to ensure that Hadrian doesn't need to fight anyone once they know that he's an elf, and I'm determined to get in an Orc attack before then.**

 **Enjoy this, anyway, despite the wait. Shib. :)**


End file.
